Mid-wash

I mention in my book how I buried some friends. Every year when the hydrangeas bloom (as they are doing right now), I am reminded of one of them and this poem I wrote afterwards.

Mid-Wash

White-centered,
Fringed by petals
Tinged with blue,
Hydrangeas bloom
Again,
Like last year
When death came
And took you away.

And now your house
Is dead, too;
The third step up,
Missing;
Weeds growing out the window
Of the plastic playhouse;
Leaves from fall,
Pressed against the patio
For warmth,
Find none
And lay brown and decaying;
Spider-webbed windows
Watch an open cupboard cabinet,
A blender,
A box of cereal,
A book about Babar,
As if you left
Mid-wash.

Yet, hydrangeas bloom,
Not knowing
They were supposed to come
With you.